


All Fall Down

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: (It's not great but it's not horrible either?), Almost Drowning, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batdad, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne's B+(?) Parenting, Claustrophobia, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mediocre Batdad, NO DEATH, Panic, Panic Attacks, Pinned, Post Bruce Wayne's "Return", Se.N, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Trapped, Trapped under a building, Whump, freaking out, suffocation, unedited we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: Trapped under building debris, surrounded by darkness, and frightened beyond belief, Tim tried to bat away the knowledge that was slowly sinking into his flesh.This would be his end.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Everyone
Comments: 57
Kudos: 644
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to get all the tags, please let me know if I missed something! 🙏 Thanks!

_How Tim ended up in situations like this, he would never know_.

Four months. It had been four months to the day since Bruce's return. Four months since Tim had started to feel at home in the Red Robin suit, though he knew he probably should have redesigned his whole persona before he became too comfortable; the cowl over his head had begun to feel like more than just a physical a mask, a way to hide everything but the grim scowl he'd unwittingly adopted from Bruce.

Yet, he was still unused to having back-up; still too familiar with working alone. Working where back-up had been a luxury, not an expectation.

Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was simply that he never expected to receive back-up in the first place, but often-times, he didn't bother calling it in. If Tim showed up to the cave with a few more bruises, what did it matter? If it was real bad, he'd skip the cave and go straight home to the penthouse. _No need to worry anyone unnecessarily―no need to show weakness._

No, asking for assistance led to mockery, at the very least; _a sigh from Dick, a ribbing from Jason, a superior smirk from Damian_ _._ What did it matter if he didn't say anything? A few bruised ribs here, a dislocated shoulder there… it wasn't like he _needed_ other people to tell him he had been careless, or too reckless. So Tim rarely called it in.

_But rarely didn't mean never._

The building had him pinned. Or, what remained of it, anyway.

The position he found himself in was an awkward one. With not enough space for Damian, let alone himself, his body was half-twisted, contorted into a shape without room to move. Something heavy was pinning his left leg down and Tim tried not to panic as he took stock of himself, the dust from the explosion still settling around him.

Blinking away the microscopical flecks of concrete that settled upon his eyelashes and caressed his cheeks, he tried to draw breath around a lungful of dust, but was cut short by the weight above his chest. Again, Tim tried his best not to panic. All too keenly aware of the tonnes of concrete and building materials above him, it was hard to manage his terrified, racing thoughts, and near impossible to to school his short, rapid, panicked breathing. Each breath came in half of the last―the weight on his chest was too much. There just wasn't the _room_ to take a full lungful of oxygen in.

There was nothing to see, only darkness encasing him. The only light to be found was miles above him, and yet his world grew smaller with each sharp inhalation, tiny black dots blinking back in his vision. There was a moment, a sure minute, where Tim passed out. It wasn't for very long, sixty seconds at most, but when he came too, his breathing was a little slower and limbs minutely more relaxed.

Tim didn't cry. There was no use in it. Crying made no difference if there was no one there to see it, a lesson he'd learned early on as a child. Instead, he made an aborted attempt a movement―shifting slightly, to see if he could manage to reach his hand to his ear-bud, still thankfully wedged inside the canal.

However, when he wiggled, the debris above him shifted threateningly. Immediately, he stopped and went completely still, taking a steady breath in through his nose; he'd rather not cause the rubble to move and crush himself by accident.

The action, though, had shifted the slight chunk of debris by his head. As nervous as that made him regarding the stability of the rubble above him, he was now thankful able to turn his neck.

It took some manoeuvring, but finally, after three painstaking minutes of trying, Tim was able to press his ear firmly to the ground. Coughing up a strangled laugh, relief flooded him like a levee breaking banks as the static-filled line sprung to life.

Dick's _oh-so-cheerful_ tenor greeted him, near-jovial timbre filling his head. It was twice as loud in the silence all around him. _“I'm just saying, B,”_ he was half-way through snickering, Damian making audible _harumph_ -ing noises in addition.

Despite the position he found himself in, wedged between the earth and concrete, Tim almost felt _awkward_ interrupting the conversation.

It was a tentitive attempt, at first. “B―?” he tried, breathless, the aborted word ringing in his ears. There was sand between his teeth, making known its presence when he clenched his jaw, the texture grainy and horrible.

A response did not come. A boisterous laugh his brain connected to Stephanie broke over the comm-line, Dick's gleeful chatter accompanying it.

With a cough not wholly unrelated to the dust, he cleared his throat and tried again, wetting his lips with his tongue, though it felt like sandpaper. In the blink of an eye, between dragging in as deep a breath as he could manage and the concrete cracking with warning above him, Tim's heart-rate spiked.

“Batman?” he said, louder this time, more commanding. _Tim wasn't a child anymore. Falling back on the expectation that Batman would just_ know _he was in trouble wasn't something he could count on, but then again, had it ever really been?_ “Come in, Batman.”

Not even a second went by before he heard the serious growl, the noise washing more relief over him like cool water on a summer's day, baptised in solace. There was a touch of confusion fluttering around his chest, plus a hint of concern. The two emotions comforted him like a soft touch or a kind word. _It was Batman, Tim was going to be okay, he was going to be―._

“ _Red Robin, report.”_

Tim resisted the urge to wiggle again, to make an attempt at freedom without aid. It would only end badly.

_At least if he died down here, he wouldn't die without someone knowing._

“Uh,” he began eloquently, half-wishing he'd prepared what he was planning to say. “There's a building down, Twenty-Sixth Street―Mister Freeze at large. Requesting back-up. I… think he said something about robots too, I wasn't exactly paying attention during the monologue.”

The chatter on the other end went quiet. In his mind, Tim could picture each vigilante launching into the night. Only Batman responded.

“ _We're on our way,”_ he declared. _“Any casualties?”_

“None,” he replied. “Well, aside from the building. But I'm sort of―”

“ _We'll be there in less than three, Batman out.”_

“―trapped.”

The comm-link went silent, though it took Tim a moment to realise Bruce had cut it. It wasn't beyond protocol. Bruce probably thought he was distracted, concentrating on the fight; he probably assumed Tim didn't have the time to shut off the comm-link on his own.

In the quiet space, buried deep underground, he let his head fall back against the ground, a groan that was more of a whine parting his lips, the only sound to accompany his solitude.

_Fridge Biscuits._

Was this how Jason had felt when he had awoken in a coffin? Alone, scared out of his mind? No, probably not. Tim wasn't Jason.

Around a halted sob, he drew in a shuddering breath. Wetness trickled down from his left eye and tickled his ear. Tim balled his fists up three times, clenching and unclenching them, a rhythmic, steady pattern to distract himself from the sudden onslaught of despair.

Emotions warred with logic, but Tim had yet to let himself be over-run.

_There was a step by step process, he just had to follow it. One thing at a time. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale._

Twisting his head, it took longer to achieve the correct position the second time, but eventually, after what felt like an eternity, but was surely no more than ten minutes, Tim managed to press his ear against the cold concrete and once more add his voice to the conversation.

In response came a flurry of sounds, various shouts, grunts and yells, in the background of it all the sound of ice cracking and mechanical gunfire.

“Hello?” he tried, voice immediately jumping two octaves out of alarm. No answering acknowledgement came.

The yelling in his ear made him wince, intensifying as Batman barked directives at the other vigilantes. Red Hood was cussing like a drunken sailor, clogging up the line with expletives, the noise tinny for some unknown reason. Meanwhile, Tim would have picked Dick to be the one pitching the thrilled cackle against the crunch of ice, but the voice was prepubescent―which pinned the noise on Damian.

The concrete around him shifted _just so_ , adding an uncomfortable amount of weight to his already struggling rib cage.

“Batman,” he tried, with as much panic and urgency as would come. It was not particularly hard to summon, compounding with a new, growing worry for his family. “Come in, Batman.”

By way of reply, Bruce swore loudly. The noise was like a burn against Tim's skin and he recoiled away from the horror that ripped through the man's vocal chords as it branded him.

Panic spiked in his chest, heart-rate picking up to the speed of a galloping horse, bolting from the gate. Between one moment and the next, his breathing froze altogether. _“_ _Batgirl_ _!”_ Batman called, fear fuelling his words. _“Nightwing, go check on her, see if she is okay.”_

Tim wasn't expecting to be addressed at all, but when he was, the heat in Bruce's voice made him curl inwardly _,_ flinching away from the anger that bubbled up to cover the terror. Even if rationally, Tim knew Bruce wasn't angry, he couldn't shy from the flame in his tone.

“ _Red Robin, there's a situation out here―you were right, Mr. Freeze has robots, although I don't think they are his and I do not believe he is working alone. Where are you? We could use you right about now!”_

The silent hiss that escaped off his tongue was nervous, unsettled. It wasn't like he could help, not trapped under however many feet of building that had settled on top of him!

“I'm stuck, B,” he managed, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of his situation and how uncomfortable he was. There was a strange, growing wet patch around the back of his ear. Blood? Or water, maybe? “I… I can't get to you.”

The latter half of his sentence was cut straight through. Batman sounded so thinned of patience it was as though he snapped at Tim directly.

“ _I'll send Nightwing and Robin to your location as soon as they've addressed Batgirl's injuries―”_ Stephanie was hurt? The thought made him nauseous. Where was she injured? How bad was it? Tim wanted to ask, but Bruce was barrelling on, with no time for twenty-questions. _“―sit tight until they get to you. Batman out.”_

Unlike last time, the staticky link that tied him to the rest of the family wasn't cut completely, but the familiar chirp over the line let him know he had been put on mute.

In the darkness, a flash of red started up, periodic and steady―a sign his emergency beacon had been activated remotely. It was the only light in the pitch black. Tim wanted to scream, but what was the point? Did a tree in the forest really make a sound if no one was there to hear it?

* * *

Some time passed before Tim realised he could hear a sound, one other than those of the world several feet above him. It wasn't much of a sound, but it was there; the soft trickling of something wet. It felt cool against his forehead when he turned to inspect, the faint red glow of light from his emergency beacon providing less help than he'd thought it would.

Cold, wet.

It was cool, which meant it wasn't blood.

With thoughts slow as molasses, but heart-rate as fast as a flighty bird, he deliberately took a steadying breath and pulled himself out of the head of Timothy Drake. Right now he wasn't Tim, right now he needed to be Red Robin. It was hard to concentrate, he kept flitting between the two.

Maybe he would have thought it his imagination, had he been anyone else. Maybe the slowly growing noise, first a slight trickle, then a steady dribble, could have been chalked up to his own fear and panic. But he _wasn't_ anyone else, he was an ex-Robin.

Tim had accepted the statistical probability that he would die young. Bruce would blame himself, of course, if Tim died trapped under all this rubble, but eventually, he would move on. Tim had thought it before―a bone deep knowledge that only ever consumed his thoughts when he felt weak enough to acknowledge the gut-wrenching truth of his own existence; _he wasn't Dick, or Jason, or Cassandra or Damian. Bruce would not grieve him as he would his other children. For the longest time, Tim's life had been tied only to Batman._ Bruce had not been looking for another son, Tim had merely squeezed himself into a space so small that Batman had forgiven his presence there. _If Tim disappeared now, though…_ well. He wasn't Robin anymore. Batman didn't need him.

Slowly, as time inched forward, the sound of water and it's cooling touch grew louder and rose higher. The whole backside of Tim's head was wet, his hair moist, the water just barely caressing the shell of his ear.

Surrounded by the blackness and frightened beyond belief, Tim tried to bat away the knowledge that was slowly sinking into his flesh, numbing his extremities and encroaching closer to his heart.

_This would be his end._

It was with this thought that suddenly, in his ear and without warning, his comm flared to life.

“ _Red Robin? Come in, Red Robin.”_

Tim didn't wail hopelessly at the sound of Dick's voice, but it was a near thing. The tears came thick and fast, but they were hot and silent, carving warmth down his frozen cheekbones. The beep in his ear let him know he could speak and would be heard.

“ _Nightwing?”_ he said, voice shakier than he'd hoped it would be. _“I'm here, I can hear you.”_

Tim could picture the slight smile on Dick's face, though he knew not if it was truly there.

“ _Batman said you were stuck. Robin and I are at the location of your beacon, but we can't see you―did you lose your tracker?”_

Tim glanced down at his hand, still stuck in place, where the emergency red glowed up at him.

“No,” he returned, suddenly feeling sore and tired and _in pain._ “No it's working just fine.”

There was a sudden snap of silence.

“ _Where are you, then?”_ Dick asked, sounding as though he was looking around, tripping over the debris of the building. _“I don't see you.”_

Tim swallowed thickly. “Uh.”

Robin chimed in next, beginning with a tut of disapproval and ending with an imperious sniff. _“Knowing Dra_ _―_ Red Robin, _the imbecile probably brought the building down upon himself.”_

Tim took another breath, as deep as he could manage, but when the rubble above him shifted, he froze and licked his lips.

“Whoops?” The single word came out as half a breath, injected with more levity than Tim had thought himself able to manage. Sure, his entire body felt numb and drained, _but at least he_ _wouldn't die alone._

There was dead silence for a minute. Or three. Then there was a flurry of noise. In his earpiece was the definite sound of panic.

“ _Red?!_ _You're joking, right?_ _”_ Dick shouted, loudly enough to make him wince. _“_ _Hold on, Tim, we're coming.”_

Tim wanted to tell him it was alright, that he would be dead well before they reached him, but Red Hood's deep, smoke-hollowed tone―made strangely young and tinny by the motorised voice in his helmet, interjected. _“_ _The fuck you mean 'whoops',”_ he barked, sounding furious, the words stinging like a physical slap to his cheek. _“That's not a god damn 'whoops' situation?!”_

Overlaying the definite worry in Jason's voice, Tim could pick the sound of Bruce's aborted, harsh inhalation. The thought of Bruce coming after him made his heart thump once, loudly in his chest. It made him… happy. Even knowing that the man would soon be faced with little more than a corpse.

Above him, the rubble shifted and an involuntary squeak left his throat.

Naturally, the noise did not escape Dick's attention. _“Red Robin,”_ he began, already out of breath over the line. _“Are you alright? What was that noise?”_

Tim dearly wanted to wipe away the grit that had fallen into his eye, but it was physically impossible and instead he settled for clearing his throat. “I'm fine,” he said, though the pitch gave away his anxiety. “Just the debris above me moved a little, that's all.”

“ _Shit,”_ he heard Steph curse quietly, somewhere safe, he hoped.

Batman's voice flared to life, the familiar sound of wind rushing past his own earpiece as he swung from rooftop to rooftop. _“I am calling in back-up,”_ he said, no-nonsense, though the words were like an electric shock up Tim's spine, all coherent thoughts zapped away.

_Back-up…? Who? Their entire family was here, fighting against Mr. Freeze and several hundred small robots of unknown origin…_

Tim bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, the taste of copper on his tongue as he licked it away. The water was rising faster now, he had to tip his head in order to keep his ear-piece above the water, steadily climbing.

It was time to tell them.

“Dick,” he began, rough and scratchy, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Dick, you know I don't blame you, right?” He sucked in a shaky breath, trying not to let the constriction of his throat translate into something strangled in his voice. “I did. I blamed you for taking Robin from me, but I don't anymore. And I forgive you for everything that… that happened between us. And I hope you can do the same for me. I know I'm not faultless, I did some things― _said_ some stuff―that I'm not proud of―”

Over the link, he could hear Jason shouting. _“Shut the fuck up, Baby Bird. Stop talking like you're dying!”_

As best as Tim could, he ignored the voices in his ear, variations of telling him that they'd get him out, and _stop acting like you're going to be dead by the time we reach you._ But the water was climbing.

“Jay,” he started next, to the tune of Jason demanding he stop, more pleading than demanding with each attempt. “We haven't always seen eye to eye, you and I. That's mostly my fault. I tried stepping into your shoes without realising how big of a space there was to fill. You were angry at me when you came back, and rightly so; you didn't deserve some rich kid standing in your spot. I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you, especially in the beginning. I hope you forgive me some day.”

Stephanie was openly weeping over the line, but he had every faith that they were all up there above him, making an effort to claw their way to him; _no vigilante left behind._

Tim moved on to Cassandra next, but in response there was only quiet from her. That wasn't something he blamed her for. Tim knew the family would need her in the days to come. She was a rock, a shoulder for them all.

“Cass, thank you,” he whispered, permitting two thick, fat droplets to peel away from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you for being such a wonderful sister. I love you, dearly. Thank you for believing in me and being a shelter in the storm. I have never been able to repay you for what you've done for me… and I guess now I never will. Thank you for allowing me to be one of the people you call family.”

There was a kerfuffle over the commlink, some shouting and the sound of Bruce grunting with effort, but Tim felt too disconnected from reality to even begin to piece together what was going on outside of his concrete tomb.

“Stephanie. Sweet Steph,” he said, a hiccup and a sob chasing his words, though not from him. He could picture her now, blonde hair peeking out around the edges of the batgirl cowl. A mantle she'd more than earned. “I know I have not always been the most supportive person. _I_ was the reason our relationship failed, I know that. I took the first step away and I hurt you. It cost us. I should have supported you more, been there for you. I hope that you can find someone else to call your best friend. Someone better, someone that deserves you.”

The water was almost up to his chin, now. It lapped at his neck with even the slightest movement, its touch freezing his already numb extremities.

When he started on Damian, he was surprised to hear the slight gasp that came from the ordinarily tight-lipped child. The youngest Wayne guarded his emotions fiercely and he'd never liked Tim, not even from the start, which was why the admission―potentially accidentally―surprised him.

“Damian, we have been at odds with each other from day one. I'd thought we would grow closer one day, but maybe it was never in the cards for us. I want you to know, though, that I _do_ love you. I still think of you as my little brother. Even if you _never_ think of me as your sibling, I want you to know that I don't regret knowing you. And I don't resent you for taking Robin. I'm glad you got to be Robin, I am glad that someone like you is protecting the city. And I know, some day, you will make the finest Batman this city has ever seen.”

Tim took a gasp of air, already mentally planning his farewell to Bruce, but the inhalation only lead to coughing and spluttering. The earpiece was well underwater now. It still worked. He could still hear everything going on up above, but there was no way he would be heard now anyway.

Tim tried to stay calm. He took a breath in through his nose and tried to regulate his breathing, but each breath came with the knowledge that soon, there would be no more air to breathe. His seconds were numbered, there was nothing more he could do. The water was over his head, now. It encapsulated him.

Tim took his last breath.

* * *

It must have been less than a minute. If it had been more, Tim surely would have been dead. _That_ was the thought his barely conscious mind supplied him with.

The heavy weight pressing down on his chest disappeared, though he only registered this dimly as it lifted away and arms immediately wrapped themselves around him, hauling him to the surface.

Tim felt like a newborn lamb, his limbs weak as he gasped and blessed air answered, filling his lungs. Everything was disorientating, the world around him blurred into shadows and shapes, dominoes and capes. Tim thought he caught a glimpse of blue, a flash of an 'S' and a glint of gold. Part of him wondered if it was the Justice League Bruce had called in, but then the thought slipped away like sand between his fingers. One, solitary shiver ran the length of his spine, chilling him further, his suit clinging to him from the freezing cold water, made more frigid now that he was exposed to the night air. Suddenly, he was being bundled up between leathery folds, a familiar cape shrouding him from the world. They were moving, but Tim felt too floaty and as though someone had allowed a cat with sharp claws to ravage his insides.

It was hard to take anything in, but the feel of being held tightly, like something precious and wanted, was unmistakable.

Tim wasn't sure how long he remained conscious for. It wasn't very long.

Batman was there, though. Holding Tim tightly to his chest, as though he was just eleven again, scared of his own shadow.

The world around him disappeared.

People and faces were swallowed up by the night as Tim slipped out of awareness altogether.

* * *

When the world began to fade in again, Tim was warm. The air around him was pleasant against skin, so very unlike that of under the debris and rubble, the cool water soaking through his suit and slowly chilling him to the bone.

It was also dark, but unlike the pitch black that had been oppressive and suffocating in nature under the remains of the building, this was an inky blackness that felt more a like a familiar blanket. If Tim squinted against it, he could make out soft shadows.

It was quiet, but for the hum of voices, the noise as though coming through thick glass. Weary, exhausted and feeling as though he'd scratched the insides of his chest out with a spoon, Tim reached for the will to turn his head, but succeeded only in making his stiff bangs crunch with the weight of his head as he shifted.

Reaching for true, conscious awareness was hard. He would much rather stay in the vague place, somewhere between asleep and awake, but the niggling feeling the back of his mind―the notion that he should _do_ something―urged him on, despite his physical protestations.

An unintentional grunt left his aching lips, feeling sore and battered and a little bruised from where he'd bitten and drawn blood. _One step at a time,_ his mind supplied. The attempt to draw himself upright was too hasty, however, alerting him to the serious possibility of a few cracked ribs. It drew another groan from his lips, followed by a thin whine of pain and a small gasp.

The voices that sounded as though they were being filtered through glass suddenly stopped. Someone had flipped them off, like a light-switch.

Tim blinked and took stock of his surroundings. He half-fell, half-eased himself back onto the pillows.

It was his room. Or, what had _once_ been his room. At the manor. It was exactly as unchanged as he had left it, although Alfred had clearly come through several times with a feather duster and vacuum. His skateboard sat in the corner, plastered with all the cool stickers Bart had gotten him over the years. His bookshelf sat mostly filled with the knick-knacks and trinkets his parents had gifted him with from their trips overseas, before their untimely passing. There was his old school laptop and his gameboy color―a hand-me-down Jason had passed on after a long talk during a late night patrol. There were so many things that made up his life and Tim had nearly…

The door creaked open, just fractionally. A bright stream of light from the hallway beyond spilled in, stopped only by the shadow of a head.

“ _Bruce…?”_ he heard from a voice past the shadow. Someone still shaken, cracking as they spoke.

Bruce gave no indication of a response as he widened the opening of the door and stepped into the room. Briefly, Tim saw Dick's face anxiously peering over the man's shoulder, and beside him, Jason of all people― _who couldn't be coerced into coming to the manor even when he was so bent out of shape that he clearly needed more medical aid than he was equipped to handle on his own._ On Dick's other side, Damian, arms folded, but strangely, not looking annoyed or as though this was a waste of time. Instead, he looked apprehensive, concerned, even as he made an attempt to mask it. Behind him was Stephanie, looking just as anxious as Dick, chewing on the flesh around her nails. And beside her, Cass, looking blank faced and unreadable, but with a comforting hand on Jason's shoulder.

It was only for a moment, though, before Bruce closed the door behind him and the world shrunk down to just two.

Tim and Bruce.

The man, no longer Batman in cape and cowl, but Bruce Wayne in a dark turtle-neck and a pair of grey slacks, drew the empty chair close to Tim's bedside and settled himself in it, leaning forward and reaching one hand out to push back Tim's crunchy bangs.

“Timothy,” he began, voice cracking immediately, holding no trace of the composed Bruce Wayne Tim was expecting. He broke. His voice, choppy and rough. As though he'd been crying. From the redness at the corners of his eyes, Tim would have thought maybe he had… but no. Not over Tim.

“Tim,” he tried again, still sounding as though someone had scraped his throat raw with the sharp side of a knife. “How are you feeling, chum?”

 _Chum. Bruce had never called him that. The nickname was reserved for Dick_ _―_ _or Jason, if he was feeling sentimental._

Bruce looked worryingly watery around the edges. It was all Tim could manage to return the upset look with a tired smile.

“Tired,” he sighed, still with the smile bending his mouth in an upward curve. “And sore.”

Bruce huffed a laugh, but it was too anxious to really mean anything and held no real amount of mirth. The man pressed his calloused thumb against Tim's cheek, wiping away real or imagined dirt.

“I'll bet,” he said in return; absent words without meaning. Just something to fill the silence with as he studied Tim's complexion and ran his eyes over ever free inch of his face. Whatever he saw, it caused a slight crinkle between Bruce's eyes. “You were under there a long time.”

Tim didn't really know what to say to that, so he settled with a breathy: “…yeah.”

Bruce's watery edges softened and his hand did another sweep of Tim's forehead, once more brushing back the few strands of crunchy hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Then, unexpectedly, the man bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering for a time. Tim could have sworn he felt something wet on his forehead as Bruce pulled away, but when he went to wipe it off, it was no longer there.

“I'm so sorry,” Bruce began, swallowing roughly and starting anew.

Tim didn't think he'd heard right. He blinked away the disbelief, unseeing gaze eventually settling on the man's left knuckle, and he resisted the urge to ask Bruce to repeat himself. It turned out, in the end, he didn't need to anyway.

“I'm _so_ sorry, Tim,” he repeated, sounding choked, like someone was strangling him from the inside. “I― _what happened was my fault.”_

Tim shook his head, but he felt oddly numb. Confusion and disbelief warred for dominance over one another. No argument sprung onto his tongue, it simply went limp in his mouth and shrivelled up and died there.

“You never should have been stuck down there so long,” he continued, sounding thin and distant in Tim's ears, but also as though a part of him was splintering, breaking like a brittle twig under a boot. _“I nearly lost you.”_

Tim sucked in a wobbly breath of his own and lifted his eyes from Bruce's left knuckle to meet his eyes.

“S'not your fault,” he countered, quiet and with a heavy chest that had little to do with his several cracked ribs. “I shouldn't have… I should have known better, _done_ better.”

Bruce looked. Well. There was something utterly terrified in his gaze, but Tim didn't know what he'd said to put it there.

“ _Tim,”_ he said, though it was more an abrupt inhalation of air than actual words. “I am just glad you're okay. I―.” But Bruce's mouth hung open like a gaping fish. It was clear he didn't know what to say.

So, instead, he ended up not saying anything at all.

Slowly, telegraphing his movements so that Tim would have time to question or push him away if he desired, Bruce shifted himself onto Tim's bed and gently, and with the utmost care, wrapped a solid, broad arm around his shoulders. A calloused hand found its way into his hair and Tim found himself sinking into the soothing ministrations, flattening and arranging the strands until they lay flat.

Eventually, when Tim was loose limbed and relaxed and his eyes had pretty much fluttered closed, Bruce pressed another peck to his temple and then pulled the blanket up higher around him.

“ _I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, chum,”_ he whispered, Tim's tired brain only catching some of the words due to the fact that he was saying them right by Tim's ear. _“I don't know that I could live with myself if anything happened to you, Tim.”_

The words pulled another tired smile out of him, Tim's mouth quirking up just barely at the corner.

“You'd be okay, B…” he replied, slurring each word more than the last so that they all ran into one another, all chased up by a yawn. “You 'ave… friends. An' family.”

Bruce stiffened, freezing completely as he cradled Tim, who was pulled up against his chest. It wasn't hard for Bruce to read between the lines.

“You…,” the man began, and then stalled, clearly fumbling for what to say. “You know I love you, don't you, Tim?”

Tim merely hummed, though it was a placating hum rather than one of true belief. At least he made an _attempt_ at trying to sound genuine, but it was Bruce. He did not buy it for one second.

The small, still silence that followed was one filled with hurt. And at the end of it, all Bruce did was minutely tighten his grip around Tim's shoulders.

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,” he whispered, his voice cracking once more as he full-named him. “ _You_ are one of the _most precious_ people on this Earth to me. You are irreplaceable and I have always cherished having you in my life. The fact that you cannot believe how much I love you is indicative of my own faults, and a belief I will aim to correct.”

It sounded. Nice. Bruce. Like this. Holding him close. But Tim couldn't be selfish, no matter if it hurt to rip the charade away. It was better to have the truth than a beautiful lie.

“It's okay, B,” he murmured around a yawn. “I can love on my own. You don't have to pretend.”

The body beside him didn't move, but the change in the air around them both was palpable.

“I am not pretending anything,” he said, tone almost winded. “And I know… I know you don't believe me now, Tim. I know I've been… a rather absent father to you― _to all of you_ _―_ over the past few months. If I need to earn back your trust, if I have to earn back you love, _my god Timothy,_ I will do anything in the world for you. _I love you with all my heart.”_

There was a small pain in Tim's chest that burned. A little like blood rushing back to a place after having been numb for too long, little pin-pricks of hurt blossoming into a sensation like that of stepping in a frozen lake. Yet Tim didn't hate it. It felt rather like welcoming back a lost limb, a part of himself he hadn't known was missing until it was too late.

Nothing felt good yet. Nothing felt _right,_ or the same as it once had. But along side the blooming pain was something else unfamiliar: hope. As sleep washed over him, Tim snuggled further down into the heat that was Bruce, allowing unconsciousness to whisper sweet lullabies through his head. Whether or not he actually spoke parting words as he fell off into dreamland would be something Tim would never truly know, but something Bruce would forever cherish.

“ _I love you too, dad.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this work! Also, if you want to make a new friend, come chat with me at [Tumblr](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/).


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